I told him, but he didn’t listen. He told me no one was out this far from the cities this late in the season. But he was wrong, he was wrong. They were coming.
We started to gallop too late. My father’s horse was bigger, faster, and we were leaving my lady behind. I screamed at my father, the terror rising as we looked behind to see my lady’s horse had fallen.
The sentinels were closing the distance so fast. We needed to go back, we needed to go back. The urgency was pulsing through me. It was the only thought I could hold on to as my lady picked herself up and shielded her precious baby girl. My father needed to carry them to safety. My father wasn’t moving. I didn’t understand why he wasn’t moving. I reached my hands out as if my will alone could transport that bundle from her mother’s arms to mine.
Our horse took a step. My head turned as my father urged us away. Away from my lady. Away.
Nooooooo. The scream tore from my lips. I screamed her name, my soul hurling out all my despair.
The sentinels were riding her down.
My lady attempted to command the wind. I could feel it. I pulled away from my father to watch the scene we were leaving behind. The sentinels were afraid because they too could feel the wind being summoned.
They rode her down.
They rode her down.
The wave of grief as my lady fell swept in a wave across the land. I reached desperately to feel the delicate connection that tied me to the precious bundle she had carried but I couldn’t feel her.
I couldn’t feel her, she wasn’t there. The thread which carried that pulse of warmth I had savoured since her birth was gone. It was gone. Because I failed. The full impact of my lady’s death hit me like a storm as the world went dark.
I had to find her.
* * *
I pushed away the hands that held me, that tried to stop me going to her.
I turned and stumbled away in the direction of the path.
“Wait.”
I moved faster. The path should be right here. My oak tree was only four or five steps from it, my favourite perch above the still pond. I had been coming here since childhood. Why could I not find the way?
Where was she?
The frantic need and terror to find her pulsed in my blood and I crashed through the bush that blocked my exit.
“Wait, stop,” a voice pleaded.
I needed to get away. I thrashed blindly at the branches in front of me. I had to get out of here. He was behind me… I turned to face him. My hand came up.
“Cass, no.”
He needed to stay away from me. The trees rustled as the wind picked up.
“It’s me, you know it’s me. It’s Devyn.”
His words tumbled over each other as the trees started to sway. I couldn’t listen. I would not let him get me. I raised my hand higher and smiled as the elements themselves surged in response. No one would hurt me this night.
The air in my lungs whooshed out as he tackled me to the ground, an oak branch crashing down where I had just been standing.
He was whispering gently to me as he kissed his way up my neck. His lips travelled across my jawline, my name a tender sigh on his tongue as his mouth caught mine.
His kiss was intoxicating and it was all that existed. I relaxed and the angry rustling of leaves died. He moved his head to kiss me more deeply. A hand swept through my hair to cup the back of my head and hold it safe.
Then he was laying tiny urgent kisses across my face, my name still tumbling from his lips. He returned to my mouth, softer, sweeter, gentler. I sighed, his tongue tangling in a tender dance with mine as I returned his kiss and whispered his name.
Devyn.
This was Devyn. I raised my hand to touch his irresistible black tangled hair.
“Devyn,” I breathed.
He lifted his head away from mine.
“Shhh, it’s all right.” His hands again took up the reassuring stroking of my face and hair from earlier in the evening.
I trembled. What was happening to me? I felt exhausted.
“Devyn?”
“Cass.” My name on his lips this time was a reassurance that all was well with the world. All was well with my world even though I was pretty sure my trembling limbs would not hold my weight.
“Your fault… you did this.”
These visions, the dizzy spells, I had been so relieved to see him again, to touch him. This was all his fault. If I had never stopped taking my pills this wouldn’t be happening and I would be in my old life. Safe.
I was safe because Devyn held me.
My eyelids were so heavy.
And I slept.
When I opened my eyes the next morning, I was in my own bed in the villa with the sun of another beautiful blue-skied Richmond day streaming in through the window. I felt strangely heavy as I pulled myself into the bathroom, and thirsty, so thirsty. I ran the tap to get some water.I cupped my hands in the cold running water to scoop it up to my parched lips and winced at a sudden sting. Refreshed, I stood gazing at my scratched hands.
Last night had really happened.
Chapter Fourteen
There was no sign of Devyn the next day, or the day after, or the day after that. In fact, the last days of summer passed entirely uneventfully and the episodes seemed to have stopped altogether. I thought maybe my own lack of energy was part of the reason, as though my heavy body was grounding me to stop me drifting away on a breeze.
Terrified that what had happened on Richmond Hill might happen again, I did everything I could to keep myself in this tired state. If exhaustion kept the episodes at bay… well, let’s just say I was ending the summer much fitter than I had started it. As soon as my strength returned I pulled on my running shoes and tracked up and down the river. Always moving, always busy.
Night after night, I sat by the window staring up at the hillside, long after everyone else was asleep.
That night had left me blistered from emotion – and only Devyn could heal me. I had so many questions but he had disappeared, and left me with them.
I had trusted him. He knew what was happening to me, so why wouldn’t he tell me? The glimpse of the past that I had caught and the depth of terror, anguish, and grief that had ripped through the boy invaded my dreams so badly that I dreaded going to sleep.
Devyn had implied it was the oak that had allowed me to see the past, giving me access to knowledge. But as I watched the scene unfold the first time, the emotions had been my own, my own horror and fear for the woman attempting to flee the sentinels. I wondered who they were, this family that had been so brutally torn apart, that poor little boy. It nagged at me, night after night. In the first vision I hadn’t even realised the bundle the woman carried was a baby. The second time around with Devyn had been so much deeper, so focused on the baby and the emotions she engendered in the boy. Had I invaded his memories? Was the baby the girl he had come in search of? I felt numb and shaky at the mere recollection of what I had experienced.
But it was Devyn that I tried and failed to push out of my mind. My cheeks burned at the memories which jumbled and tumbled over each other – Devyn’s anger, the fear… hers, the boy’s, I wasn’t sure, but the lashing out had been my own. I could barely recall what had happened in those moments when past and present had blurred. I had barely known what I was doing, where I was. Who I was. It had felt like my mind had shied away from the feeling of violence, only to slam into the burning embarrassment of how he had managed to bring me back to myself.
He had literally seduced me back to sanity. In a world that had shrunk down to my emotions – fear, terror, the ferocious power that had promised to ensure my will was done – it was the tendrils of his kisses that had lured me back to him, back to reality. I had felt like a hurricane swirling fiercely across the oceans, devastating the land when it hit but ultimately blowing itself out on the ground to which it was drawn.
I cringed at the horror of those moments, though invariably it was at this point in the cycle of memories that my
body was finally lulled to sleep, once more in the arms of the man who had brought me back from the brink. His arms around me, his whispered words comforting me, soothing me until my eyes grew heavy and I slept for a few hours.
Where had he gone? Why hadn’t he come back?
When I returned to the city, the Treaty Renewal pre-season had already well and truly begun. There was a whirl of parties to attend and the city was hung with decorations and lights. It only happened every four years and the Province made the most of it from the moment of their entrance, revelling in the pageantry: the floaty Celtic Kernowans, the proud princes of Cymru, the martial leather of the armoured Anglian contingent led by the Steward of York. There were no Albans, of course; the Treaty only applied to those beneath Hadrian’s wall because that was the furthest north the Roman territories had ever extended.
While the Britons were in the city, there was an undercurrent of wariness and danger that heightened the festivities, culminating in the masquerade ball at the Governor’s Palace before they departed and everything went back to normal. Marcus, of course, unlike most of my friends, was already back at work, but thankfully he was able to make time to take me to a party on the first weekend after my return.
My mother watched me constantly. Apparently, she didn’t deem the time I had spent with Marcus over the summer sufficient and she expressed her disappointment at the lack of attention my future husband was showing me in a hundred little ways. My appearance wasn’t as polished as it had once been either, affording Camilla plenty to find fault with. My behaviour had changed and my new fitness regime and my constant air of distraction were both obvious targets. Without Devyn and the need to hide my meetings with him by keeping up appearances at home, I was left all too open to barbs but I just didn’t care. My social butterfly days were behind me; I had become a moth drawn to a flame I knew would burn me. Now I was a forlorn, slightly singed moth drifting aimlessly in the absence of the light that had so dazzled it.
Attending a party on my return to the city with Marcus was somehow comforting because I was able to disguise myself once more in the glad rags and bright colours of the delicate protected butterfly I had once been.
At the sound of the door, I caught up my bag and, humming a tune, made my way to the entrance where Marcus was making small talk with my father. Their voices lowered as I approached. My father looked concerned but as Marcus turned my breath left me in a gasp.
“Marcus.” I managed to catch myself and beamed warmly at him, my hand on his chest as I reached up to give him a peck on the cheek. But Marcus looked as I felt: a hollowed-out version of his former self. His lustrously thick, wavy hair hung limply, there were shadows under his eyes, and his high cheekbones sat gauntly in his face.
As we moved towards the door I placed my warm hand in his cold one – so often when I was with Marcus, I felt a little in awe of him. He was the golden boy of the city, stylish, charming, sure of himself, perhaps on occasion a little arrogant. I wondered if he felt as disappointed with our lack of chemistry as I did. Tonight though, that Marcus was markedly absent and my hand slipping into his was slow to be received before being gripped tightly, as if he needed the sliver of comfort it offered. Like dry soil absorbing a drop of water, the unexpectedness holding it on the surface for a second before the earth remembers its need and pulls down the much-needed moisture into its depths.
I winced a little as the grip became more than I could bear.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, easing the pressure a little but not giving up my hand.
“Is everything well?” I asked as we waited for the lift. I was genuinely worried.
“I’m fine,” he responded, “but I could probably do with a night out.”
He looked like a party was the last place he needed to be.
“Are you sure?”
He turned, looking me up and down before lifting my hand to his lips in a light kiss.
“Very sure.” He smiled. “You look beautiful.”
I smoothed my skirt, nervous from his compliment. Given it was months since we had started seeing each other regularly, I knew our flirtation was much lighter than was the norm. Matched couples usually took full advantage of this period to properly get to know each other; I was just grateful that Marcus had shown as little interest in progressing things as I did… at least until now. Had putting my hand in his somehow indicated I was ready for more?
I caught a glimpse of us in the mirrors as we made our way through the foyer. We really were an incredibly attractive couple. I envied the girl in the mirror who was hand in hand with Marcus on her way to a party. If only the inside mirrored the outside.
“Cassandra, would you mind walking?” he asked as we approached the waiting car.
I gestured ruefully at my spiky heels.
“Of course,” he said shaking his head. “I wasn’t thinking.”
Now I was really concerned. Marcus was a seasoned socialite when he wasn’t doctoring. For him to have failed to consider that I was in full party regalia was highly unusual.
“Wait here.” I pulled my hand from his and dashed back up to the apartment, popped my heels into a holdall to bring with me, and donned some more appropriate footwear. Then I made my way outside in my now less than coordinated outfit to where Marcus was leaning on the waiting car. “Now we can walk,” I said with a smile.
“You can be a surprising little thing,” Marcus said, swooping to place a kiss on the end of my nose.
My smile faltered a little at this further sign of affection and I saw him blink as he caught my momentary lapse. I smiled widely, tucking my arm through his to compensate. We walked companionably for a few blocks. Or at least, neither of us spoke.
“Cassandra,” he finally said, “if you would rather not be with me, it would be best if you said so sooner rather than later.”
“No, no,” I got out breathily. “I’m sorry.” How to explain why I pulled away when my future husband touched me… I cast about for a reason.
“I’m just a little new to all this.” I grimaced inwardly.
“You’re sure?” he asked. “It’s not my bloodline that bothers you? I know not every citizen would relish the thought of marrying someone who is part Briton.”
“No, really.” I suddenly had a brainwave. “In fact, I’m adopted so I could be anything. Who am I to throw stones? You are, what, fourth, fifth generation… as far as any of us know I could be a Shadower.”
His eyes widened; perhaps it was time to dial it back. I needed to reassure him that it wasn’t the old blood that ran in his veins that made me physically cool towards him, not give him a full confession of my own bloodline.
“I wasn’t aware you were adopted,” he said. “Do you know anything about your birth parents?”
I shook my head. “Very little. They were killed in an accident when I was a baby. I’ve never really given it much thought.”
Until recently. Now I thought of little else. Over the last weeks I had wondered incessantly about the vision I had been given and the woman in it who had died trying to save her baby. What had happened to my own mother? Had she too been killed by the sentinels? Or was she still alive somewhere in the Shadowlands?
“You should get tested,” Marcus said.
“For what?”
“For blood markers. We could tell you quite a bit about your genetic makeup. We’ve got a lot of DNA information on citizens from across the Empire. I’m afraid we have comparatively little information about Briton blood. Most of what we know is from diluted Shadower blood. We would at least be able to find out what you aren’t and narrow it down a little.”
“I don’t know.” I shifted uneasily. “What if I found out something I didn’t want to know?”
“What?” he asked looking at me closely. “Like if you have mixed blood? It’s incredibly unlikely, but it would be best to know.”
“How so?” I asked, intrigued at what would be an unusual statement for any citizen, but was even more so for Marcus given how s
elf-conscious he was about his own mixed blood.
Marcus hesitated, apparently unsure as to whether he should say more.
“Cassandra, you cannot repeat what I’m about to tell you.” He paused, I nodded, and he continued. “The latest outbreak… it’s bad. More and more people are getting sick and we still can’t figure out what’s causing it. We’re continuing to have some success at my hospital, more so than at any other, but we’re struggling to pinpoint the reason for the recovery. One of the largest common denominators is that those with a high count of Briton genetic markers are more likely to get it.”
What did that mean? Did a high percentage of Briton inheritance make them more likely to be latents? Was that who the illness attacked, those with magic in their veins? Were full citizens immune? Why were some recovering and others weren’t? What was it that Devyn needed to find out, and could I get Marcus to give me something to tell him? I looked up at him to pursue it further and was again struck by how haggard he looked. What was I doing? I had refused to spy for Devyn for good reason. Marcus didn’t deserve this.
“You’ve been working long hours at the hospital?” I prompted.
“Yes, I feel like I’m helping. I know I’m a lot more junior than some of the other doctors working at the hospital but I’ve had far more success at achieving recovery than any other doctor in the city.”
I couldn’t help myself as I smiled at his claim. He smiled back wryly.
“You think I’m exaggerating, tooting my own horn? I’m not, you know. If anything, I’m underplaying it. Very few patients recover. I’m the only one to have had any real success.” He ran his hand through his hair. “If I only knew what I’m doing differently we could help more people. I could tell the other doctors so they could stop whispering every time I leave the room,” he finished tiredly.
The sounds of music and the low hum of people announced our arrival at our destination. The oh-so-confident Marcus looked like a lost little boy in this moment, and I felt for him. I wanted to make him feel better.
Secrets of the Starcrossed Page 18
